Archive of Our Own

Wyvern Moon, 1180

“Why are you doing all this work?” Hilda says, from her position on one of the hay bales in the stable.

Dimitri hauls another load of manure into the cart as he mucks out one of the stalls. He pauses afterwards. He’s barely broken a sweat. Hilda’s sweating just watching him.

“What do you mean?” he says.

“Well, you’re doing all my work—”

“You said your ribs were sore from the last battle—”

“But you don’t even have to do your own work.” Dimitri blinks at her. “You’re a prince. Your retainer, or even just about anyone in your house, would do it for you so you can relax.”

Dimitri narrows his eyes at her. Shit, he’s onto her. But he straightens slightly, ignoring her wince. “Because I’m a prince, it’s even more important I do the work,” he says. “It’s my duty to be familiar with the tasks servants and commoners do, and often do specifically for me. I want to know what they’re doing for my comfort, and it’s a prince’s, and ultimately a king’s, duty to know many tasks. It’s my job to help out where I can.”

“It’s your job to govern,” Hilda points out. “That’s as much about delegation as anything else.” She winces again. That sounded smart, and she doesn’t want to give Dimitri the wrong idea.

“Well, yes,” Dimitri says. “That’s true. But it’s also my job to know when my people need help. Of course I’m only one man, but if I’m on progress, and commoners are short a man for a barn-raising, or need assistance with the plow, I want to be able to help where I can. From both the top down and the bottom up.”

Hilda whines. “That’s a lot of work.”

“Is it?” Dimitri says cluelessly. “The rest of the Blue Lions have their own chores this week, and your ribs are sore. I’d hate to give them more work, or give you work that causes you pain.”

Hilda rarely feels bad, but Dimitri’s somehow, without even trying, guilted her into it. “I suppose I could clean the tack,” she says. “If you bring it out for me.”

“Are you sure?” Dimitri says, worried.

“It’s not lifting anything heavy, or twisting,” Hilda says. She’d better keep up the charade, just in case. “So I think I’ll be okay.”

Dimitri smiles. “Let me bring out a saddle for you,” he says, and as he walks into the tack room Hilda sighs heavily.

Ah, well. At least he doesn’t complain. There are worse people to be stuck with on stable duty.

Lone Moon, 1187

Dimitri’s been accustomed to the idea of an arranged marriage since he was young. Ingrid and Glenn were engaged not very long after Ingrid was born, after all, and Dimitri knew plenty of adults in court who were not love matches. As the future king, he had a duty to the Kingdom—to have a match that politically benefitted Faerghus, to marry someone who could bear children and pass down a Crest. Of course he—or his potential spouse—could always reject the troth, and it was not unheard of. The expectation was that you at least liked who you married. But a love match wasn’t really on the table for Dimitri.

In brief moments of his life, he’d hoped—Edelgard, before he knew they were stepsiblings, before she was the Crown Princess—Felix, who could bear children if he was willing—but Felix wasn’t willing, and was with Ashe besides. And Edelgard—well. Even if she hadn’t been his stepsister, she was dead now, by Dimitri’s own hand.

The subject doesn’t come up after the war. They’re too busy rebuilding, restructuring, fighting off revolts. Dimitri has first one relapse of madness, and then a second, and they’re barely contained by his friends. But eventually, he has offers first from nobles within Faerghus, and then the nobles in Leicester and Adrestia as well. Dimitri avoids them as much as he can. He is not a wise nor sane partner for anyone, nor will he be a good father. Edelgard’s notes include not passing the throne on by inherited means, based on Crest status, and he thinks she may have the right of it. No one deserves to be saddled with a man such as Dimitri for a husband.

However, inheritance is only one reason to marry, as Duke Goneril points out a year and a half after the war, at a meeting of the United Fodlan council.

“There are many in Leicester who dislike your suggestion of opening Fodlan’s Locket,” he informs Dimitri. “There is a lack of trust in your ability to rule, and many question your priorities.”

He’s clearly been elected by the Roundtable to speak for them. Next to him, Margrave Edmund and Count Gloucester nod along.

“His priorities?” Felix starts, incensed. “Maybe you should worry about your—” He breaks off with a grunt as Sylvain, on Felix’s right, presumably kicks him.

“Surely you don’t think the stories of your behavior on Gronder Field have been forgotten, Your Majesty,” Goneril says. “You attacked the Leicester Alliance without cause.”

“If I recall,” Sylvain says smoothly, “Leicester attacked indiscriminately once the smoke was too thick to determine whose uniforms were whose. And we sent a messenger before the battle offering an alliance. We found his body, his tongue cut out, and never discovered who killed him.” He lifts his eyebrows. “Was it a rejection of our offer, Your Grace?”

Goneril’s ears turn red, but he continues. “You killed Leicester men that day, Your Majesty.” Count Rowe gasps in rage, as if he hadn’t spent five years capitulating to Cornelia’s fetid Dukedom. Felix opens his mouth again, and this time Dimitri firmly steps on his foot, shutting him up.

“I do not deny it,” he says evenly, though his guts are roiling. “I will atone for my sins for the rest of my life, in service to the people of Fódlan.”

“The people are uninterested in opening the Locket,” Margrave Edmund snaps. He opens his mouth to speak again, and Dimitri dreads what sort of eloquent isolationism might pour from his lips, but Goneril thankfully cuts him off.

“There is a certain amount of resistance to opening the Locket in Leicester,” he agrees. “However, we all understand the benefits of peace, and establishing trade with a partner such as Almyra would be valuable.” From the looks on Gloucester’s and Edmund’s faces, Goneril has gone off script, but neither dare interrupt him. The Adrestian bloc sits on the other side of the table, watching in either boredom or amusement, depending on the person. “Therefore, I’m offering a…compromise, of sorts.”

“Go on,” Dimitri says. “I am more than willing to compromise to open the Locket and end our hostility with Almyra.”

“I believe many would consider your offer more palatable if more members of your trusted circle were from Leicester. At the moment, you seem surrounded by Faerghans, and you are tended to by an Adrestian healer. You have cozied up to the Duscur more than you have worked with leaders of the Alliance.” Dimitri opens his mouth, but Goneril continues. “Our people feel as though you are ignoring us because we are a sure thing. But the Leicester Alliance has a strong character and distinct goals. If you’re not careful, you’ll end up alienating not only the Roundtable, but the people themselves.”

“What do you suggest, Your Grace?” Dimitri says. “I have always welcomed Leicester into my court. What more would you like me to do?”

“Marriage,” Goneril says. “Marrying someone from the Leicester Alliance would engender trust amongst the people of the Alliance.”

Dimitri swallows. Two seats down from Goneril, Count Gloucester’s face is incandescent; he has realized where Goneril is going. Dimitri has a sinking feeling he himself knows as well. “Who did you have in mind?”

“If you married someone not only from Leicester, but from the House that has suffered the most casualties as a result of incursions from Almyra,” Goneril says smoothly, “And they agreed with your opening the Locket, many people would be swayed to your cause. And Leicester would have the ear of the King of United Fódlan. I believe my daughter Hilda is an excellent choice.”

Fuck Leicester; this is a ploy to give Goneril the ear of the King of United Fódlan.

Dimitri freezes. His whole body has gone hot and cold at once. Nausea burbles in his throat. He swallows it and it only rises up again. He is not marriageable. Not because he is a king, but because of who he is as a person—no, he is not even that. He is a monster, a creature, too much blood on his hands.

“A recess, perhaps?” Sylvain says. “His Majesty needs to think about this unexpected offer. Additionally, it looks like the Leicester faction needs to regroup.”

“Yes,” Dimitri manages. “Let’s adjourn for half an hour.”

He waits for the room to empty out before he puts his face in his hands. He knew people urging him to get married was coming, but he always thought he’d have more time. There is so much to do; a royal wedding would only be a distraction.

In Faerghus, there’s always the option for the parties involved to refuse an arranged marriage. Ingrid has, many times. Mercedes has more than once. It can be scandalous, sometimes, but it’s an option. He has no idea if it’s the same in Leicester. Has Hilda agreed to this? Does she even know?

He remembers Hilda as avoiding the training yard even more than Sylvain, though she was formidable with an axe. She never went to a seminar unless she was forced. She had lived an easy life, a blessed one. Her parents seemed to give her whatever she wanted. Goneril was a wealthy house. She always seemed a little spoiled. Were they spoiling her knowing she would someday be a pawn? Or was she agreeing to this willingly to become Queen Consort of United Fódlan? She hadn’t ever seemed particularly ambitious, but…was this her idea?

“Dimitri,” Felix says.

Dimitri lifts his head from his hands, at the sound of his name from Felix’s mouth more than Felix’s voice. “Yes?” he says.

Felix thrusts a glass of water in front of him. “Drink,” he says, and Dimitri obeys, finishing the whole glass. Felix refills it, and sits back down at Dimitri’s right side.

“It’s not a bad idea,” Sylvain says carefully.

Dimitri scrubs his hands over his face, and then fixes his eyepatch. “It’s smart politically,” he agrees. “Goneril is our biggest obstacle to a peace agreement with Almyra, and agreeing to a marriage with the house would certainly ease our way. Obviously the whole Roundtable disagrees with him, but Goneril is the ringleader at the moment.”

Sylvain chuckles. “They’re terrible at working together,” he says. “Did you see the looks on their faces when Goneril struck out on his own?”

Felix snorts; Dimitri smiles. “I did notice that,” he says. He sighs. “I have no political objections to a marriage, but I have many personal concerns.” He gestures at himself. “I am no one’s idea of a good husband.”

Felix snorts again. “Half the population of Fhirdiad would disagree with you,” he says.

“They’re biased,” Dimitri says. “No one’s forgotten that we saved them from Cornelia.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Felix says. “You’re—handsome, and young, and Crested, and the king of a continent. People want to marry you.”

“They shouldn’t,” Dimitri says.

Sylvain rests a hand on his shoulder. His hand is warm and heavy, a comfort.

“Finish your water,” Felix says instead of responding. “You don’t have to decide this now.”

Sylvain squeezes his shoulder. “The Duke will expect an answer by the end of the summit, though.”

Dimitri takes a sip. “You’re right,” he says. “After the Locket, what’s next on the schedule?”

Dimitri meets with Duke Goneril near the end of the summit.

“I’m interested in your proposal,” Dimitri says, once they are alone. “However, I won’t accept a marriage without meeting my potential spouse.”

Duke Goneril’s eyebrows raise. “She’s aware of my offer,” he says.

“I’d like to meet her regardless,” Dimitri says. “And speak with her. A future Queen Consort will be my partner in life and governance. I have barely spoken to her since we were students together, and not at all since the war. That is not the basis for a marriage.”

Goneril eyes him, frowning. However, after a moment he says, “Very well. Are you able to remain at Garreg Mach for a few more days? I will send a wyvern rider to collect her.”

A few more days at Garreg Mach is not ideal, but Dimitri hoped to leave with an agreement to treat with Almyra, and he doesn’t have that without a marriage to Hilda Goneril. After Duke Goneril struck out on his own, the other members of the Roundtable had capitulated to Dimitri, but even with the Roundtable’s agreement, he can’t open Fódlan’s Locket without House Goneril. So he’ll talk to Hilda. He’ll agree to marry her, on his end. An arranged marriage was always going to be his destiny.

He sends Ingrid on her pegasus to get his family ring from Fhirdiad.

Hilda arrives on a wyvern three days later. Dimitri’s there to greet her, but she puts up her hood as soon as she lands and refuses to meet with Dimitri until she’s cleaned up.

Hilda saw Dimitri at the Battle of Gronder Field; unwashed, hair matted and filthy, giddy with madness and hungry for blood. Dimitri uncharitably thinks he deserves to see her after a day’s travel on a wyvern, but he allows her her vanity. If he wants his peace with Almyra, this has to work, despite his reservations.

Hilda arrives at the sitting room doubling as Dimitri’s office carefully coiffed, wearing makeup and a pink and blue dress. The blue surprises him; it contrasts with her hair and brings out her eyes, but he also remembers her favoring warm colors during the time the Faerghan army spent in Derdriu. She carries with her a thin limp vellum book and a leather dossier. Her earrings match her dress.

He's not an expert in fashion, but he has always watched fighters, and can't help but notice Hilda's thick shoulders and biceps. It takes him a minute to realize he wasn't supposed to notice them, the cut of her dress distracting. She doesn't want to appear like the wielder of Freikugel. He guesses she wants to appear delicate and useless.

It takes him another moment to realize she's sizing him up as much as he is her. He wonders what she sees: a tired man, hair in need of a cut and black-clad like a funeral-goer. A king who doesn't wear a crown. Can she tell he has the beginnings of a migraine pounding in the base of his neck?

"Dimitri," she says. She doesn't use his name with the same deliberation someone like Mercedes does. She's casual, as though she owes him no allegiance. It's refreshing. "It's been a while."

He rises, and she offers him her hand. "Hello, Hilda," he says, and kisses her fingers. "I saw you at the coronation, but we didn't get a chance to talk."

"You were busy," she says, and rolls her eyes. "It would have been a lot of work to get through that crowd."

Dimitri can't help but smile. “Tea?” he says. “I have a selection. What do you prefer?”

“Albinean berry, please, if you have it,” Hilda says, and Dimitri prepares the teapot and hot water carefully, hanging the pot in the fireplace. With his back to Hilda he feels vulnerable, but it also gives him a chance to compose himself. He scrunches up his face tightly, and then relaxes, pasting on the pleasant smile that got him through the academy.

He sits back down.

Hilda looks at him. “Do you want to get started now, or wait for the tea to brew?” she says.

“What else would we talk about?” Dimitri asks, taken aback.

“Mutual friends,” Hilda says. “The weather. Garreg Mach’s rebuilding. You’re a king, I know you know how to do small talk.”

He’s not great at it, but he does. “You’re friends with Annette, right?”

“I am,” Hilda says, smiling. She launches into a story Annette told her into a recent letter, and then she doesn’t stop talking until the tea is boiling. She’s good at small talk—she’s an engaging speaker and all her topics are light and superficial. Dimitri excuses himself to pour the tea and returns with two saucers, setting them down carefully. The fine Garreg Mach china is delicate, and Dimitri worries he’ll break the cup while he drinks.

“Shall we move on?” Hilda says, once she’s taken a sip. “How do you feel about my father’s proposal?”

“It was a surprise, to an extent,” Dimitri says. “I was always planning for an arranged marriage, but not so soon.” He looks at her. “I’m not unwilling,” he adds. “I want to sign a peace treaty with Almyra, and open the Locket.” He pauses, looking up at her, not sure if he should say her father offered her as an exchange.

“And my father suggested marrying me would grant you that,” Hilda says.

Dimitri nods.

Hilda sets down her cup. “I think my father’s reticence will stretch beyond any marriage of ours.” Dimitri sucks in a breath. He’s not surprised, but he is dismayed. Of course he would be misled. Hilda continues. “But personally, I am also interested in a treaty with Almyra, and establishing long-term peace with them.”

Dimitri blinks. “You are,” he says.

Hilda nods. “Are you surprised?”

“May I be honest?”

Hilda gestures. “Be my guest,” she says.

“You’re a gifted gossip,” Dimitri says. “Can I have your word that you won’t share the contents of this conversation?”

Hilda’s mouth quirks. “Most would not say gossip is a gift.”

Dimitri lifts one shoulder. He’s spent enough time in his uncle’s court to know the use of it. “It has its place,” he says.

“Very well,” Hilda says. She holds up her hand, and then presses it to her heart. “I won’t tell a soul.”

Her dramatics are uninspiring, but Dimitri will take what he can get. “I’m surprised to hear you want peace. My understanding is the Gonerils have saved a fair amount of money by indenturing prisoners of war, and you never questioned the hostilities at the Academy.” Not like Sylvain had about Sreng, not the way Ferdinand had expressed concerns about Petra’s role in Fódlan.

Hilda flushes, shifting in her seat. “It’s not like we’d be broke without it,” she says. “And I have a…friend, who’s Almyran. He’s taught me a lot.”

“A friend?” Dimitri wonders if she means Cyril, although he didn’t know she and Cyril were close.

“He suggested to me that opening the Locket would be more beneficial than constant fighting, especially with coffers running dry in Fódlan from an internal war,” Hilda says. “He’s not wrong. I’ve not been especially privy to House Goneril’s financials but it’s an expensive task.” She picks up her the slender limp vellum book she brought with her dossier. “He’s smart enough to cater to my interests, so he suggested some areas I could research.” She flips the book open. “Treating with Almyra and opening trade would expand the tools and materials Fódlan artisans could use tenfold. And not just jewelers and clothiers but blacksmiths, carpenters, and the like. Almyra is a much larger region than Fódlan, and just as geographically diverse, if not more so. Furthermore, they’ve established far more trade with the rest of the world than Fódlan ever has, even with our limited exchanges with Dagda and Albinea.”

“This is all pretty similar to what I’ve surmised,” Dimitri says. “What does your father think?”

“My brother wants peace more than our father does,” Hilda says. She pulls a piece of parchment out of her dossier. “He’s…let me find it. ‘I’ve grown tired of endless border skirmishes. They are a pointless and foolish waste of resources and manpower. I’ve told you before, if I’ve learned anything on the border, it’s that Almyra produces people of character just as much as Fódlan does, and Fódlan produces people of corruption in equal share. Here at the Locket, there’s very little difference between myself and Nader.’”

“Nader?” Dimitri says.

“An Almyran general at the border,” Hilda says. “He and Holst have clashed a lot.” She shrugs. “My father is sly, but he values the opinion of the future head of the house. He would certainly value the opinion of the Queen Consort. If marrying you gets his voice in your ear, and Holst and I push him, then he’ll back you opening the Locket eventually. And Holst and I can convince him of the rest.”

“I won’t marry you while your family makes indentured servants of prisoners of war,” Dimitri says. “You can tell your father that.”

“I’m surprised Faerghus thinks so little of the prospect,” Hilda says.

It’s Dimitri’s turn to wince. “I’m sure some find it perfectly palatable,” he says. “I don’t, personally.” Not after the Tragedy and the pogroms in Duscur. Not after the Srengi offered up a child as a political hostage, and his father and Matthias Gautier accepted the offer.

Hilda pulls a silvertip out of her dossier and makes an note in her book. “What are you suggesting?”

“Offer them a significant stipend, and access to travel back to and within Almyra, should they want it,” he says. “Give them the option of continuing their work for you with the same wages and housing as your Fódlandy servants.” He’s considered this in the last three days—it's his major objection to marrying Hilda. “House Blaiddyd is willing to pay fifty percent of the stipend and offer knights as an escort to the Locket. I want it done before the wedding.”

Hilda writes as he speaks. “My father wants to be respected above the rest of the Roundtable,” she says when she’s finished. “It’s always been the weakness of the Roundtable, their jockeying for position. This is his chance in a United Fódlan.” She looks down at what she’s written. “Have you drafted a contract for this? With hard numbers?”

“I have,” Dimitri says, and slides a piece of parchment across the table.

Hilda takes it, slipping it into her dossier. “I doubt he will refuse the offer, expensive though it will be.” She tosses her hair. “You can’t tell anyone I know that,” she says. “You’ll have to discuss the prospect with him.”

“Very well,” Dimitri says. “Let me ask you this: do you want to get married? To me?”

Hilda looks at him owlishly. “I don’t care either way,” she says. “But being Queen Consort of the continent means I get to set the fashions. I won’t say no to the offer.”

“It’s going to be some work,” Dimitri says, thinking about Raphael carrying her bodily to the training grounds before the Battle of the Eagle and Lion.

Hilda makes a face. “I know,” she says grimly. “But I always figured I’d end up in an arranged marriage. You said you did too.” Dimitri nods. “Frankly, marrying the King of United Fódlan is as good of an option as I’m going to get.”

“So you’re marrying up.”

“With you, everyone’s marrying up, unless you marry a royal from outside Fódlan,” Hilda says.

Dimitri’s mouth quirks. “A fair point,” he says.

Hilda looks at him, and sets her jaw. Her entire demeanor shifts. “I’m only going to say this once, so pay attention,” she says. “You didn’t conquer Leicester. It was given to you by Claude, who has left Fódlan. Marrying outside the continent will only enrage nobles from Fódlan, and marrying a Faerghan or an Adrestian when you’ve secured both regions by loyalty or war will only alienate Leicester.

“You could marry Marianne, but that won’t get you House Goneril and the Locket. You could marry Lysithea, but that won’t get you the Locket and Lysithea has no interest in marriage. You could marry Lorenz, but that won’t secure you an heir and, again, it won’t get you the Locket. You could marry any of the other lesser nobles on the border and that might ingratiate you to House Goneril, but it still won’t get you the Locket. You could marry my brother.” She smirks. “It’s an option, even though my father doesn’t think much of it. But Holst is already…attached. I’m not, and I’m not unwilling. Ultimately, if you really want peace with Almyra, I’m your best option. Better even than a royal from Almyra, because without the support of House Goneril, you won’t get the Locket by any way other than force.”

“I wouldn’t want to…prevent you, from future attachments,” Dimitri says.

Hilda waves a hand. “We can negotiate that,” she says. “We certainly wouldn’t be the first married royals to do so.” She tosses her hair again and smiles, all teeth, her eyes bright. “Anyway, you’re handsome enough.”

Dimitri blinks. He has a feeling he's just been shown part of Hilda very few people have seen, and he isn't sure he's worthy of it.

Still, Hilda makes sense.

She rolls her eyes. "I can't believe I'm convincing you of the reasons it's politically beneficial to marry me," she says. "Obviously it benefits me. I’ll be the Queen Consort, and no matter who I marry, I'll have to work more than I'm used to." She sighs. "It's unfortunate, but I'll survive. Besides, I ran the entire supply chain in the Alliance during the war."

"You?" Dimitri says, and then feels himself flush. "Sorry, I—"

"No one else was as efficient as I was," Hilda says crossly. "I kept trying to foist it off on others and they would fuck it up."

Dimitri chuckles. “It’s not funny!” Hilda says. “I tried everyone. Even Judith couldn’t run it as smoothly as I could.” She sighs, shoulders slumping for a moment, before she straightens and meets Dimitri’s eyes. “I’m a good match for you,” she says. “I’m extremely efficient. You need that if you’re going to run the continent.”

“You’d be willing to do the work,” Dimitri says.

“To an extent,” Hilda allows. She looks Dimitri up and down. “If I can dress you for special events,” she says. “You looked like a disaster at the coronation.”

Dimitri glances down at his clothing: he’d worn black at his coronation, same as he wore now, though his surcoat and gloves had been embroidered in blue. “It was bad?” he says.

“You looked like you were at a royal funeral,” Hilda says, with no small amount of scorn.

Truthfully, Dimitri had felt like he was at a funeral. He doesn’t say that. “I’ll allow it,” he says.

Hilda extends her hand again, and Dimitri takes it. They look at each other and then Hilda sighs again. “Do you have a ring?” she says.

“I sent for one,” Dimitri says, and reaches for the box he set on his side table. He opens it. “If it’s unacceptable, we can make a new one. Still, I hope it will suffice for now—”

Hilda quirks her lips. “Well, someone in your family had taste,” she says. “It’s a bit simple, but it’s beautiful.” She wiggles her fingers. “Well?”

Dimitri slips the ring on her hand. It’ll need to be fitted, but for now it will do. “Well,” he says, and kisses her fingers again.

The day before the wedding, Dimitri takes Hilda on a tour of the royal wing in Fhirdiad. He shows her their private kitchen, and introduces her to the servants. Most of her many trunks and belongings have already been delivered to the Queen Consort’s rooms.

“The Queen Consort has her own rooms here,” Dimitri says. “The dressing room and water closet leads into the shared bedroom.” Prior to Cornelia, the Queen Consort had a separate bedroom—it was how Cornelia had managed to separate Patricia and his father so often. But Cornelia had turned the Queen Consort's bedroom into a laboratory, and Dimitri had walled off the entrance to the royal chambers and turned it into a guest room, used mostly by Dedue.

“You share a bed?” Hilda says. “Quaint.”

“Half the year you’ll want a bedwarmer anyway,” Dimitri says, not rising to the bait. He’s used to nobles from the south denigrating Faerghus and its small, somewhat casual court. “However, there is a guest room on the other side of the Queen Consort’s greeting room, and I don’t want you to be uncomfortable. Only Dedue uses it, when he's not in Duscur." He dislikes the option of taking away Dedue's space, even if it's only his when he's in Faerghus, but technically its is the Queen's bedchamber. "We could create a door for your own bedchamber, if you wished.” They would have done it already, for Hilda’s comfort, but Dimitri’s nearly emptied the House Blaiddyd treasury in the last month due to his agreement with Goneril.

Hilda flaps a hand at him. “That sounds like work,” she says. “I’ll try it.”

“You may want it,” Dimitri says. “I am not a sound sleeper.”

“I sleep like the dead,” she says. Dimitri almost laughs. The dead, in his experience, don’t sleep. Hilda examines the room, and when she gets to the box on the cabinet, Dimitri starts.

"I almost forgot," he says. "I got you a gift.

"A gift?" Hilda says, mouth quirking.

"It's traditional for a royal of Faerghus to give their consort," Dimitri says, shifting awkwardly. "If you could wear it at the wedding tomorrow, many Faerghans would be very pleased.

Hilda opens the box. It's a small dagger, the sheath wrapped in pinkwood-dyed leather.

Hilda lifts her eyebrows. "A dagger?" she says.

"Like I said, it's traditional," Dimitri says, shifting on his feet. "I hope you'll deign to wear it."

Hilda unsheathes the dagger. It's as high a quality as Dimitri could get, folded steel and useful, with a hilt decorated in anemone flowers and the pinkwood sheath. "It is lovely, for a knife," Hilda says. "Why not. I'll wear it. You gave me full reign over out clothing, I can wear this. It won't match, really, but..." She sighs. "I'll wear it, especially if it will get me in with the court."

"Thank you," Dimitri says.

Hilda smiles at him, sheathing the knife again. "You've just given me a tool to slit your throat," she says.

"That sounds like a mess," Dimitri says, before he can stop himself. "Do you really want to deal with the clean-up?"

Hilda makes a face. "Ew, you're right," she says. "No way."

The wedding day is the first of Harpstring Moon. Even in Fhirdiad, it’s early spring, and it dawns clear and sunny, a beautiful and auspicious day for a marriage.

Dimitri does not feel auspicious. He feels like a curse.

He dresses in the clothing Hilda picked out for him, and stares at himself in the mirror. He doesn’t look like a king. He doesn’t look like his father. He looks like his uncle: sallow, dark circle around his eye. Even worse than his uncle, perhaps, with his eyepatch. Rufus’ hair—his father’s hair—was always neat, but Dimitri’s is a mess of cowlicks.

“Dimitri,” Dedue says from the doorway, and Dimitri turns to find him and Felix. They exchange a glance, and Dedue steps forward. “Let me help you with your hair,” he says. “Sit.”

“You don’t need to handle me,” Dimitri snaps.

“We absolutely do,” Felix says. “I’ll make tea.” The last is clearly said to Dedue, not Dimitri.

“Thank you,” Dedue says, as Felix leaves, running his fingers through Dimitri’s messy hair. “If I do this,” he says, “You can’t touch it until after the ceremony.”

Dimitri sighs as Dedue picks up his hairbrush. There is no point in being angry with Felix or Dedue, not for this. He does need handling. He is helpless. He is not anyone’s idea of a good husband.

“She’ll hate me within the year,” Dimitri says.

Dedue sighs, beginning to braid Dimitri’s hair. “She agreed to this as much as you,” he says. “She will want to make it work, too.”

“She’ll poison me to get rid of me,” Dimitri says, a vicious curl of fear snaking through his stomach.

A corner of Dedue’s mouth turns up. “No, she won’t,” he says. “Because then she’d be the Queen of United Fódlan, and she has always shied away from that much work.”

Dimitri smiles too. “I suppose you’re right,” he says.

“I am usually right,” Dedue says, with good humor.

Dimitri barks a laugh, reaching up to grasp Dedue’s wrist. “Thank you, my friend,” he says.

“I know you do not feel you are going to be a good spouse,” Dedue says. “But you are willing to put in the work. If anything, I am worried for you, not Hilda.”

“Dedue,” DImitri says. “I am sure I will b—”

“You are a romantic, Dimitri,” Dedue says. He’s braided some of Dimitri’s hair back on each side, and joined the plaits together where they met at the back of his head. “You deserve a love match.”

Dimitri swallows. “Regardless, this is what I’ve gotten,” he says. “Hilda and I have come to several compromises, I think.”

“Compromise is not love,” Dedue says. He rests his hands on Dimitri’s shoulders.

“It’s better than nothing,” Dimitri says. He takes one of Dedue’s hands and squeezes it. “Dedue. This is not what I—what I wished for. But it’s what I’ve prepared for, my whole life. And I’m not unhappy.”

“I wish you didn’t have to,” Dedue says quietly.

Felix pushes open the door with his shoulder, a tray with a teapot and cups in his hands. “Is he better?” he says.

“Moderately,” Dedue says. “The chamomile will help.”

Felix puts a cup in Dimitri’s hand and pours the tea in it. “Drink,” he says. “It can’t be any worse than the coronation. That was a lifetime commitment, too, but the ceremony was twice as long and you were an absolute wreck.”

Dimitri inhales the chamomile and then glances up at Felix. “Am I less of a wreck now?”

Felix scowls at him. “Miraculously, yes. Drink your tea.”

Dimitri takes a sip. Swallows. Takes another sip. He breaks up each action into its tiniest parts and does them one at a time. He finishes the cup, and feels—better.

He sets his cup down and stands up. Looks in the mirror. He still looks tired, but his hair looks better--looks good, even. Dedue’s worked magic. There’s color in his cheeks from the steam of the tea.

“Ready?” Felix says.

Dimitri smiles into the mirror. It feels like a grimace, but it looks all right.

“Don’t do that,” Felix says. “You look like a beast in human clothes when you smile like that.”

Dimitri stops smiling. “Do I?” he says.

“Just…be yourself,” Felix mutters.

“Myself?” Dimitri says, baffled.

“You said you were not unhappy,” Dedue says. “Think of what you’ve gotten from this arrangement. What you’ll get.” Dimitri’s face softens. “That’s better.”

Felix swings the door open. “We’re running out of time,” he says. “It’s as good as you’re going to get.”

“Shall we, Your Majesty?” Dedue says, and Dimitri swallows and stands. Felix is right--it can’t be any worse than the coronation.

“I’m ready,” he says, and almost believes it himself.

The wedding is a large affair, and an exhausting one. Dimitri forwent his full armor despite tradition; he doesn't want to remind people of the war. Even without the weight of his armor, the crown he rarely wears is heavy on his head. It feels strange to wear blue and gold instead of black and grey. His surcoat is more elaborate than his usual garb, with golden embroidery of lions along the hem and split sleeves revealing his white silk tunic underneath. His gloves fasten at the wristbone with pearl buttons.

Hilda looks in her element, though she's not wearing her usual colors; she wears an elbow-length Blaiddyd blue overdress over a white silk dress. Both are floor-length and embroidered with golden thread: the overdress with deer leaping through forests and brambles at the hem, the underdress with anenome flowers that are revealed where the overdress opens at the skirt and bosom. Her white silk sleeves tie onto the underdress at the elbow, revealing hints of her forearms, and lace tightly to the wrist. Her hair is in an elaborate updo accented with gold chains and tiny gems, and she wears a pair of gold earrings, decorated with sapphires surrounding a tiny pink pearl that matches her eyes. Her necklace is sapphires set in gold woven with more pink pearls. She's resplendent as she kneels and accepts the delicate crown she designed for her role as Queen Consort, and he notices her nails are painted gold when she places her hands in his for the handfast.

Faerghan wedding ceremonies amongst commoners, and even lower nobles, are usually short affairs. The Church has tried to lengthen them with hymns and sermons, but a simple handfasting ceremony was common for centuries before the Church of Seiros became Faerghus' official religion. There are remnants of the old ceremony in the royal wedding, but only a few. It's a long service, lasting most of the afternoon despite Byleth's succinct sermons. The readings from the Book of Seiros are long, the hymns are long, and Hilda and Dimitri spend most of it with their hands tied together with heavy golden rope, until Dimitri has sweat through his silk gloves and Hilda is making a face, her fingers equally sweaty and twitching in Dimtri's.

When Byleth calls for them to kiss at the end, Dimitri's relieved, aching a little from standing in place for so long. He leans down (and down, and down some more) and kisses Hilda firmly on the mouth, and her hands, still tied to his, fist in his surcoat and tug him a little closer. It's brief and slightly giddy. Byleth unties their hands.

"Finally," Hilda mutters, and shakes her hands out. Dimitri takes her arm instead of her hand to lead her to the feast afterwards.

"I wish Claude could have made it," Hilda says as they walk from the chapel to the great hall. "I invited him, but he wasn't going to be able to be here in time."

"You know where he is?" Dimitri says, surprised.

"I can't tell you," Hilda says. "I swore to keep it a secret."

"I won't press," Dimitri says politely, before he remembers he’s the king and he should press. His mouth continues on regardless: "It must have been important; Claude's not the type to just leave on a whim."

"It is important," Hilda says. "You'll find out eventually, anyway."

Dimitri bites the inside of his cheek. "That shouldn't be enough," he says.

"It's not my secret to tell," Hilda says. "You're going to have to trust me." She glances up at him. "Can you?"

Dimitri looks at her. They're not working at ulterior motives, and aside from the disastrous battle at Gronder Field, they've never been enemies. Hilda convinced him to marry her. Still, Hilda's practically a stranger to him in so many ways. She is almost certainly a spy for her father, and will spend time reporting back to him on his actions and behaviors. He's still half-certain she'll kill him. Trust hasn't come easily to him since childhood, no matter how much he wants to be able to trust Hilda.

"I'll try," Dimitri says slowly. He looks down at her to find her watching him. "People in court are going to underestimate you."

Hilda raises her eyebrows. "I'm sure they'll estimate me exactly as they should," she says. "I'm not particularly motivated."

Dimitri eyes her, but Hilda's not giving anything away, sincere as she ever seems to get. He pats her arm as they walk into the great hall.

They retire to their room at the end of the night. Even Hilda looks worn as she heads into her dressing room to change. Dimitri feels a thousand years old.

There’s still one last part of this fracas, and dread curls inside him at the thought of it while he changes out of his wedding clothes and into a tunic to sleep in. He’s never done this before—at the Academy he focused on other things. During the war he felt little lust: desire was reserved for violence and when he was aroused he was shamed out of it. A distraction from his goals.

He unbraids his hair while he waits for Hilda, trying not to tangle the strands, and then brushes it out. Splashes water on his face.

“Dimitri?” Hilda says. She’s wearing a thin white silk chemise, her hair down. It falls nearly to her hips. Her nipples are visible, just barely, through the thin fabric.

She’s beautiful, a vision. He just feels sick.

“Hilda,” he says. “Is everything to your liking?”

“I’ll need to organize the dressing room,” Hilda says, walking into the room. “But it will suffice.” She offers a smile at Dimitri. “The window in the sitting room is lovely. Does it get cold in the winter?”

“Everywhere gets cold in the winter, I’m sorry to say,” Dimitri says. “However, the shutters are very sturdy, and we insulate the inside with quilted curtains. It keeps the drafts out.” He offers her a small smile. “You’ll probably have to get a new wardrobe for the winter.”

“I am looking forward to that,” Hilda says, sitting on the edge of the bed. “There’s so little chance to wear velvet and furs in Goneril, and even less in Derdriu. I’ve already begun designing some jewelry to suit.” She swings her legs against the bedframe. “Are you coming to bed?”

Dimitri has no reason not to. “Yes,” he says, and walks to the bed. He swallows.

“For goodness’ sake,” Hilda says. “I’m not going to eat you.”

Dimitri feels himself flush. He pushes back the covers and gets into bed. Hilda does the same, on the other side of the bed, and then scooches over so she’s next to him. She drapes a leg over his hip, settling her thigh between his legs, and he freezes.

“It could be worse,” Hilda says quietly, against his ear. “In Leicester, with a Roundtable marriage, the rest of the Table watches. To make sure consummation happens.”

Dimitri chokes on a laugh. “You don’t think the guards at my door aren’t listening? If we don’t do anything, the whole keep will know by breakfast tomorrow, and traceable rumors would be evidence for one of us to use to file an annulment.”

“Still. Imagine Count Gloucester sitting in that chair, watching you—” she giggles when Dimitri buries his face in her shoulder. “I’ll walk you through it,” she says. “I have a feeling you didn’t get out much.” She sits up and rolls over to straddle Dimitri.

“Am I so obvious?”

She winks. “A little.” She shifts on his hips, and Dimitri can feel himself begin to react. “But this is the last time I do this much work, you hear?” She sits up before he can answer, and strips her chemise over her head. Dimitri sucks in a breath.

Hilda is undeniably beautiful. She’s so…pink, hair and eyes and lips and nipples, the curve of her waist and the flare of her hips. In her clothing she’s careful to mask the strength of her shoulders, but naked the bulk of them are undeniable. She has a few scars—what front-line fighter doesn’t—but next to her Dimitri feels worn and battered. Still, he feels himself getting hard.

She settles herself on top of him, grinning at him. “Like what you see?”she says. She reaches for one of his hands and sets it on her waist. “You can touch.”

Dimitri sets his hands where Hilda’s indicated. “There we go,” Hilda says warmly. She leans forward, her hands next to his shoulders and her breasts dangerously close to his mouth. He leans up to nuzzle one of Hilda’s nipples, entranced.

Hilda giggles, the sound fading into a moan when he starts to suck. She tangles her fingers in Dimitri’s hair, and rocks down on him until Dimitri groans too.

“I think we can make this work,” she says.

Ethereal Moon, 1180

“Dimitri!” Hilda says. She’s had some of the punch Claude spiked, and she’s giddy. She and Dimitri have spent too much time on stable duty together for her to just forget about dancing with him, and he seems to have gotten a break in the endless students asking him to dance. “Dance with me!” She grabs his hand and drags him out onto the dance floor.

“Hilda—ah!” Dimitri’s eyes and mouth are open wide, and Hilda laughs at his surprise. “Are you quite sure—”

“You seem like a good dancer, Your Highness,” Hilda says. “Why don’t you show me how you do it?”

Dimitri still looks surprised, but he settles one hand on her waist as he takes her hand. “I learned a long time ago, that’s all,” Dimitri says. His eyes flick away from her for a moment, but then he sweeps her into a waltz. His nose wrinkles. “Did you—drink something?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny,” Hilda says primly, and to her surprise, Dimitri chuckles. “You know, you seem like you’re pretty blue-nosed, but you’re not so bad.”

“High praise from Hilda Goneril,” Dimitri says, voice faint. He’s blushed slightly pink.

“Hey, I’m a great judge of character,” Hilda says, and when Dimitri smiles at her, her heart swells. Just a little bit.

He doesn’t step on her toes once.